


Finally

by Meredydd



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 05:04:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1886148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/pseuds/Meredydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stars have aligned! Mycroft and Greg finally have the same evening off to spend together... if only work didn't keep getting in the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finally

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monkiainen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monkiainen/gifts).



> This was for a prompt by Monkiainen over at Holmestice 2014!

  
  


  
  


Dinner was on the table, wine (for Mycroft) and beer (for Greg) were at the perfect temperatures, and there was an assassin in the garden. Mycroft sighed and pretended not to notice as his bodyguard moved across his line of sight, a dark shadow against the evening light filtering in through the thick wisteria. “I do hope you're enjoying the pasta, Gregory,” Mycroft said, making Greg look at him rather than glance over his shoulder as he had been about to do. “I wanted to try something new with the sauce.”

Greg offered a bemused smile. “You've made puttanesca before, Myc. And I loved it then, too.”

Mycroft murmured a noncomittal sound and reached for his wine. “There's tiramisu for dessert.” A sock-clad foot against his calf made him pause. “Oh?”

“It's our first mutual night off in six months, Myc. Yes, _oh,_ ” Greg laughed. “I was thinking, it'd be rather nice to have an entire evening to just...enjoy it rather than sneaking in a sleepy quicky or a rushed handjob.” He grinned and Mycroft knew that his own face must be turning pink. “Still blush when I talk dirty, eh?”

“I must admit,” he said carefully, watching the shadows moving across the window from his peripheral vision, “I don't hear that sort of talk often at work.”

Greg dropped his fork in mock-outrage. “Often? Wait, you mean you hear it sometimes? Well, I never! My tax dollars go towards that sort of thing? I'm writing a letter immediately!”

“Oh, do stop,” Mycroft said, unable to stop his smirk. “You know I only hear it when you get a chance to call on your lunch break.”

“You know, the phone works both ways...”

“How awkward would that be, I wonder, to be in the midst of telling my lover exactly what I'd like to do with his cock only to have the delegation from Norway walk in on me.”

It was Greg's turn to smirk. “Norway's fairly liberal. I'm sure they'd apologize and back out. Maybe send you some lutefisk to make up for it.”

Mycroft barely managed to avoid choking on his wine at that mental image. “I prefer it if you are the one calling,” he said after a breathless moment. “You are far more adept at such turns of phrase.”

“Liar,” Greg purred, leaning across the narrow bistro table they had set in the dining nook of Mycroft's kitchen. “I've heard you say some things that would bring a saint to his knees.” A raised brow let Mycroft know just what the holy man would be doing down there. “In fact, I remember one of your comments quite well.” The toes pressed against Mycroft's calf began to travel upwards as Greg continued in a low, rough voice. “Something about sucking me off whilst I wore a cock ring, then riding me until I begged you to let me come?”

Mycroft couldn't hide his jump of surprse as Greg's toes pressed gently but firmly against the rapidly firming bulge between his legs. “Ah, yes. June fourth of this year,” he managed, only a bit breathless. There was a faint scuffling noise outside, almost too soft to notice, and Mycroft smiled. “Four forty five pm.”

Greg drew back and, for a moment, Mycroft was certain he'd said something offensive, done something <i>wrong</i>, but Greg's laugh was anything but mocking. “God, I love that brain of yours.”

“Ah. Well. My brain, er, loves your brain.” Mycroft hid his grimace in his wine glass.   _Lovely, Mycroft. You sound like John Watson now. If I'm not careful, I'll be praising Sherlock with every breath next_. Greg's soft laugh was punctuated by a squeeze of his toes against Mycroft's now-erect penis. “Ah. Um. Shall we retire to the bedroom, then?”

Greg was on his feet and around the table before Mycroft could place his wine glass back down. “Why not get started in here?” he asked, dropping to his knees with a grace that belied the damage years of police work had done. “Be a shame to let this go to waste.” He gave Mycroft's bulge a squeeze before deftly working open the zip on the expensive, bespoke trousers. Mycroft tried to muster a protest(Uns _anitary! We're in the kitchen! This is what the bedroom is for! Or the sitting room! Maybe the car but—the kitchen, Gregory?_ ) but it was lost as Greg's lips brushed against the leaking head of his cock. Mycroft forced himself to keep his eyes opened and trained on the window across from him, even as Greg began lipping at his foreskin, tongue darting just beneath the edge of it to tease and tug. He big back a groan as Greg engulfed his cock in one long, slow pull, letting Mycroft feel himself against the back of his throat before he withdrew to take a breath and slid down again. “I... I see that you are not going by half-measures this evening,” he breathed, ears straining to hear any more sounds from outside, eyes wide for the movement of shadows under the security light. 

Greg only hummed.

Mycroft's eyes fluttered closed against his will and he bit back a groan. “Gregory...” A faint buzzing sound made them both freeze. “My phone,” Mycroft wheezed after a moment. Greg did not pull away but glared up at Mycroft, cock still in his mouth but nowhere near as deep as before. “I told work...” Mycroft trailed off and, under Greg's disapproving stare, checked his phone.

_** All clear.  ** _

Mycroft smiled. “Ah. Nothing important,” he lied and tossed the phone into the fruit bowl in the center of the table. Greg nipped once, gently, at his cock and Mycroft hissed. “I won't even look at the phone again tonight, Gregory.”

Greg pulled back, making sure to drag the flat of his tongue all the way, and smiled. “Now that _is_  devotion.” 

Mycroft sighed and let his head fall back against the chair as Gregory began again, taking his cock deep and slow. He nearly bit his own tongue to keep quiet, mindful of the bodyguard (and now, likely, the clean up crew) just outside the back door, wondering vaguely if they knew what was happening just a few feet away, what the incident report would look like in the morning ( _While Holmes got head in his dining nook, we subdued the assassin and disposed of the evidence... Special note for future security detail, Holmes is a screamer so bring ear plugs)_. Gregory worked his cock gently but persistently, teasing and sucking until Mycroft couldn't remain quiet. He knew that he would blush later, when he recalled the babble and promises and pleas, but for that moment, he just wanted to come, to feel his lover swallow his cock and take all his load before licking him clean and-- “Oh, god, I said that aloud,” he groaned.

Greg chuckled around his cock and proceeded to do just as Mycroft asked.

  
  


“I'm not a young man, Gregory,” Mycroft groaned. It had been almost an hour since the blowjob in the kitchen, after which they had cleared up and taken dishes of tiramisu to the drawing room, ostensiably to watch a movie on the plasma telly. Instead, Greg had proceeded to felate his spoon with each bite of dessert and make suggestive comments about the creamy texture, and his own, untended-to state. 

Greg laughed. “Then it's a good thing I want you to do exactly what you suggested on June fourth of this year, at a bit past four...”

Mycroft blinked, drew back a bit and felt his lungs compress as his breath whooshed out. “Ah...I mean, really? A...a cockring and everything?”

“Did you know that you come over a bit Hugh Grant when we fuck?” he growled, taking Mycroft's plate and setting it on the end table. Rising to his knees on the leather sofa, he leaned over Mycroft and nipped at the spot just below his left ear. “It's been six months since we had an entire evening to ourselves, Myc. I want you to fuck me till I can't remember my own name, and I want you to make me scream so loud that the neighbors call the coppers.”

Mycroft managed to speak in a voice which waivered only a little. “That...would be awkward for you, I'm sure,” he said softly. 

“Myc,” Greg sighed. “I want to be inside you. Desperately.”

Mycroft nodded, pushed Greg away gently, and said, “Go up to the bedroom and strip down. The, ah, device is in my bedside table. It is unopened.”

Greg smiled. “Been saving it?”

Mycroft only shrugged, cheeks flaming. “I'll be up soon. I'll, ah, prepare myself first.”

Greg shuddered visibly and closed his eyes. “Can I watch?”

Mycroft's cock gave an interested twitch. “Next time.” He shooed a grumbling, horny Greg out of the drawing room and stood, taking several slow, deep breaths and calming himself before bringing up security on the plasma. The cameras outside showed the guard at the kitchen door around back, the one at the front, but not the ones that were truly dangerous to intruders, the ones the cameras didn't see. No trace of the would-be assassin, no sign of trouble. A quick glance at his phone showed only the usual messages from Anthea, assuring him the world kept spinning, and a rather vitriolic note from Sherlock about corrupting 'his' detective inspector. Another slow, deep breath and he returned the phone to his pocket, shut off the plasma, and took a brief glance out the bullet-proof glass of his windows. Less than twelve hours before either of them had to return to their life outside Mycroft's house, or Greg's flat... Decisively, he took the phone out of his pocket and placed it in his topmost desk drawer, locking it with a flick of the combination lock.   _Be brave, lad. It's not even your primary work phone._  A dull thump came from overhead and his cock twitched anew. “Impatient, Gregory?” he murmured. “Well, best not keep a gentleman waiting...”

  
  


Mycroft stopped in his bedroom doorway to simply look at the man stretched out on his bed. Greg might not be a very young man anymore, but he was beautiful and virile in ways that youth would never allow. A dark blue ring sat at the base of Greg's flushed, leaking cock and wrapped around his already-tight balls, nestled against the thatch of curls between his legs. His cock stood up with a lovely curve that Mycroft knew would hit his sweet spot just right, especially if he were on top. The thought made heat pool in his belly and spread down his thighs, shivering along his limbs as he made himself walk forward. “I see you've wasted no time,” he remarked approvingly. “Tell me, Gregory... How benevolent should I be this evening?”

“Do you really want an answer?” he complained, though good-naturedly. “I've got very little blood left in me brain as it is.” 

“Entirely a myth, you know. The human brain can function perfectly fine during arousal.” As he spoke, he removed his waist coat and worked open his cuffs. He had prepared himself downstairs, in the bathroom off his study, and could feel the lube leaking out already. The plug he had placed there wasn't very large, but it opened him enough so that taking Greg in one slow slide wouldn't be painful. He realized, as he shed his shirt and carefully laid it across the valet stand near the bed, that Greg wasn't paying attention to what he wassaying, but rather staring at him hungrily. He felt a shiver of power, of need, of an answering hunger, and paused in his undressing. “You are truly magnificient, Gregory...”

“Fuck me,” Greg begged. “I've been waiting for ages, Mycroft. Months. The quickies, the handies... I love them, love being with you, but to have you properly... Oh, God, Mycroft, don't make me wait!” He arched his hips, the dark jut of his cock drawing Mycroft's eyes down his torso and making his mouth literally water. Greg smiled. “Take me, Mycroft. I'm yours. Fuck me however you want...”

Mycroft shed his trousers and pants with alacrity, knowing he would be a bit embarrassed later with the speed he achieved nudity. He climbed onto the bed and straddled Greg's hips, letting Greg's cock rub against the cleft of his arse as he settled. “I heard you banging about up here, you know,” he whispered. “Eager to get into bed and wait for me.” He leaned forward and pressed a hard, seeking kiss against Greg's parted lips. “I'm flattered.”

Greg made a noise of denial against Mycroft's lips as the kiss resumed, but it became a sound of pleasure, of need, as tongues slid and darted, and hands sought. Mycroft stretched and arched, reaching behind himself to tug out the little silicone plug and put it to the side, out of their way. Greg groaned and arched his hips again. Mycroft slid back a bit further, then a bit more, reaching back to hold Greg steady as he slowly, slowly took him in. Both men groaned loudly as Mycroft finally sat back, hands braced on Greg's chest, and rocked his hips once. “Now,” Greg panted. “Please!”

Mycroft nodded, lips pressed into a thin line of concentration as he began to move. “You feel,” he breathed, “exquisite. So hard and hot inside me, Gregory. So _big_  ...”

“Fuck, Myc,” Greg breathed. His jaw worked as if he wanted to say more, but words just weren't coming. He groaned again and reached up to brace his hands againt the headboard before thrusting up, into Mycroft's tight arse. “Fuck!”

Mycroft made a sound somewhere between a groan and a cry and began moving faster, all but bouncing on Greg's cock, the rubber of the cocking pressing against the stretched opening of his arsehole with each downward thrust, making him feel like the whole thing was rather dirty and sordid. It made his cock all the harder, made his mind spin a thousand rapid fantasies about role playing and where they might could go to recapture that deliciously naughty feeling again and again later. He rocked his hips as Greg thrust, the thump of the wood and metal headboard against the wall a counterpoint to their coupling. Mycroft felt the first tingle of impending orgasm within minutes and he gasped aloud. “I was right,” he managed. “Being on top... your cock is just perfect for this.”

Greg laughed, breathless, and curled his fingers around the bars of the headboard. “Do it, Myc. Take what you need. I want you to come for me.”

That was all it took. Mycroft gasped hard and doubled over as he convulsed in release, scant ejaculate (thanks to the blowjob in the kitchen) spraying Greg's belly. He caught his breath for several heartbeats before carefully climbing off Greg's cock and setting to work removing the cockring. It took the work of a moment, but another handful of seconds to decide, and commit, to what he was about to do. Greg's shout of surprise was nearly lost in the roaring of blood in Mycroft's ears as he took Greg's still-slick cock into his mouth. The bitter-chemical tang of lube and the salt of leaking pre-come flooded Mycroft's mouth and he began laving and sucking, feeling Greg twitch and writhe beneath his hands and mouth. Before Mycroft could begin to second guess himself, before he could wonder if Greg were disgusted, he felt Greg's fingers tugging painfully at his hair. He ignored them, sucking harder, tongue working the frenulum and foreskin of Greg's cock. A second, two seconds... Greg cried out sharp and high, and Mycroft swallowed everything, every bit of Greg's load in his mouth. He barely managed to pull off before Greg was tugging him up the bed, claiming his mouth in a fevered, sobbing kiss. “Jesus,” Greg finally said against his throat. “That... Fuck. I haven't come that hard in ages. In six months,” he ammended, laughing. 

Mycroft blew out a harsh, winded breath, about to speak, but froze when a thump sounded in the corridor. “Gregory,” he said after a long moment. “The thump earlier... that wasn't you, was it?”

Greg frowned. “Huh? Oh. No! I was going to say something when you mentioned it but...well.” He shrugged. “I thought it was you, moving around.” 

Mycroft shook his head. Greg pulled back and both men looked at each other with a silent, resigned, understanding. Mycroft slipped from the bed and retrieved his pants as Greg grabbed his own jeans from the floor. Greg had his phone out and on as he moved towards the door, another thump sounding from the corridor, closer this time. Mycroft nodded towards a panel by the bed and Greg lifted his chin in reply. The security alert button—clunky and inelegant but useful in an emergency. Mycroft pressed it once, and the outside lights flickered through the drawn shades. _Team alerted_. 

Greg gestured towards the wardobe.  _Hide._

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “No,” he whispered. 

“Myc!” Greg's voice was a bare whisper in the quiet room. Outside, the thumps had stopped. 

Mycroft padded to the wardrobe and ignored Greg's nod of relief. On the top shelf, just inside the door, was a silver-toned lock box. He opened it with a practiced flick of his wrist and pulled out a loaded Sig. “Doctor Watson isn't the only one with a loose definition of legality,” he murmured as Greg groaned at the sight. “Do stand back, Gregory. This will not be pleasant.”

“I'm a bloody cop, Myc! Don't! I've dialed 999, you alerted security--”

“I've alerted what's left of them. I'm starting to suspect this is the fellow from the garden earlier, and he killed my guard and took his uniform.” Mycroft sighed, checking to see that the gun was loaded. 

“Garden—What? Just...what?” Greg turned towards Mycroft as the door opened. Mycroft stepped forward and shoved Greg aside with an elbow, bringing his gun up to sight as the door opened. “Myc, down!” Greg dove, but Mycroft was faster. He sidestepped, bringing the gun down to his side as he saw who stood in the doorway, aghast. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft snarled. “I should have shot you.”

John, half-hidden behind Sherlock in the doorway, made a strangled sound of amusement and embarrassment. “Um, sorry. I...um. We'll be down stairs. Sherlock, come on, love.”

Sherlock, face frozen in an expression of disgust, finally uttered a sound. “Ugh!”

“What the frilly fuck is happening?” Greg snapped, yanking his shirt on and stalking towards Mycroft at the same time. “Assassins in the garden, dead guards--”

“The guards are fine,” John piped up. “One has a concussion but he's otherwise alright. I checked him out on the way in.” John glanced at Greg, blushed furiously, and looked away. “Greg.”

“John,” Greg mumbled. “For Christ sake, someone start talking or I will start shooting and lie to the inquiry board about it.”

Sherlock uncrimped his mouth and finally spoke. “A criminal of a particularly stupid mindset apparently cannot read addresses. Assumed Mycroft's home was mine and arranged a rather swift and messy end. If you would answer your phone,” he added as an aside to Greg, not meeting his eyes, “you would have known this.”

“You could've texted me, Sherlock,” Mycroft pointed out, pulling on the dressing gown Greg proffered. “I mean, in addition to your complaint about monopolizing your DI.”

“Fuck's sake,” Greg muttered and sank down to the bed. “Could we have this conversation elsewhere?”

“No need,” Sherlock replied, terse and flushed, staring at a spot somewhere on the back wall. “We came along, your guard attacked John when we entered the back garden, John rendered him unconscious. The guards in front, ah, neutralized the person who meant harm to a Holmes and here we are. Disgusted and in need of a decontamination shower.”

John closed his eyes and said something under his breath that contained numerous swear words. “Sherlock wanted to make sure the house was clear,” he said. “And now we're leaving. And pretending this never happened. If anyone even mentions anything about this evening ever again, I will hurt you in ways medical science has no palliative to relieve.” He grabbed Sherlock by the elbow and pulled. “Good evening.”

Sherlock wiggled free and paused to finally meet Mycroft's gaze. “Really, brother dear... your deductions were far wide of the mark.”

“Sherlock! Come on!”

Sherlock smirked, closing the door behind him. Mycroft and Greg barely managed not to groan at the muffled “Ugh! They were having sex, John! Sex!” that filtered through the door.

Greg scrubbed his face with his palms and sighed. “Mycroft... what the actual fuck...”

Mycroft sank down beside him on the bed and laid a tentative hand on his knee. “I...fear I must apologize, Gregory. I believed that we could lay work aside for one damned evening, and here we are.”

Greg laced his fingers with Mycroft's and squeezed. “Life with you will never be boring, I supposed.” Mycroft laughed weakly and Greg squeezed again. “Hey, look...let's... let's go watch that movie, yeah? Start the evening over?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Gregory, I am, frankly, mortified at the turn of events.”

“Mycroft, the only think you should be embarrassed about is being wrong about one thing.” He leaned close and kissed Mycroft's ear. “Apparently, arousal does have an effect on your ability to think clearly.”

 

 


End file.
